Snow
by iluvmylowandbaseball
Summary: “His lips don’t tease. He’s straight forward when kissing and hates to beat around the bush. He doesn’t skim the surface of her body like he used to. He doesn’t make her stomach churn.” LS


**Title:** Snow

**Rating:** R

**Categories/Genres:** Het, Drama, Angst

**Warning(s):** Sexual situations, Drugs/drug use, Original characters, Post Season 2

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Lincoln/Sara, Lincoln/Other, Sara/Other Original characters

**Disclaimer:** Don't own.

**Summary:** "His lips don't tease. He's straight forward when kissing and hates to beat around the bush. He doesn't skim the surface of her body like he used to. He doesn't make her stomach churn."

**Author's Notes:** This is for missvacant, who requested angst, sour milk and the line "Shouldn't you have made a run for it by now?". The story switches POV's after each break and seems to be PMS-ing due to all the mood swings. Oh, well. I hope you enjoy this.

---

The snow accumulates on the ground beautifully. Flakes comes down in flurries, some melting and others clumping together before it reaches the ground.

The hills are a white wasteland of frozen precipitation that, when clean, Lincoln loves to watch.

Sara, however, knows that isn't the case.

In August, she and Lincoln left Panama. Alone. After all, they were free.

Lincoln hasn't been the same since. His calls to his son, LJ, have reduced from twice a week to once a month (or, "Whenever I feel like it," according to him). He barely speaks things of importance with Sara and he is constantly wearing an odd scent.

He refuses to have a cell phone and loathes the idea of having his girlfriend live with him.

Well, "girlfriend". Sara hasn't spoken with him in a month.

And that, of course, was _her_ decision.

---

The alleyway is lit by a lone streetlamp lining the sidewalk. Snow is the only thing that litters the ground, in all shapes and forms. It glares almost menacingly, with a gap-toothed grin. Grayness and all irks Lincoln.

Snow is his only enemy.

"Can you get me a pressure gauge?" says a voice from beyond, breaking his trance and almost causing him to slip.

Huffing, "Don't ever fuckin' do that again."

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to scare you." The tall redhead raises his hands in surrender and Lincoln glares, extending his own gloved hand.

"Gimme the money and I will."

"I have none."

"Damn it, Jordan!" he hisses, stomping in place before planting his butt on the white-gray cement.

"I already used it. I wouldn't ask you for a gauge if I had money."

"You owe me too much, you know?"

"I'm broke, Linc. Please?" Jordan begs, slowly dragging himself over to Lincoln's spot on the ground.

In response, he drags his clothed fingers through the little hair on his head and buries his face in raised knees. "Why d'ya do this to me?" he grumbles.

"Please."

The redhead isn't asking any longer and Lincoln forces himself to his feet. "You wanna know something?"

"Not really," Jordan mutters.

"I don't have enough money to run my business and run your shitty errands. From now on, buy your shit from me and I'll give you a large enough discount to buy your fucking stem."

"Wouldn't that be the same thing?"

"Don't smart-ass me, kid. I'm not up for your foolish games right now. I have other shit to take care of."

"So are you gonna get it?"

"No! Get someone else!"

---

Crickets.

All she hears in her head are the chirps of crickets. All she sees are her nails and the filth that lines its edges. All she does is scold herself for not grooming more thoroughly.

Then again, this guy isn't so big a catch.

His name is Landon. Landon is an advertiser. Landon works for the former Cingular-turned AT&T company. Landon is supposedly sought after by Coca-Cola.

Remember that commercial where boy meets girl, boy calls girl after date, call drops (unbeknownst to the caller) and boy rants about not making out with a sister? Well, that wasn't Landon.

_Landon_ is utterly small-time.

Landon _is _an idiot.

Landon doesn't _know_ better.

Landon is pure _bullshit._

Honestly, Sara has no idea what drew her to him. Could have been his looks, which aren't much but a tight ass and delicious-looking body. Could have been his wardrobe.

However, there is no way it was his banter. With talk of tires and rims, Sara forces herself to believe her reason is Option Number One.

The one intriguing aspect about him are his eyes. They are a smoky hazel, with little green specks.

They are the only things that have reminded her of_ him_ for the first time since last week.

"Would you like another glass of wine, Sara?"

Startled, she meets his beautiful gaze and can't help but smile. "Yes, please."

---

His body slams into the wall and the bathroom door. He throws himself against the toilet and dunks his head inside. He tries to grab the damn needle that hangs from his arm but his fingers are too jittery to concentrate on anything but the vomit burning his throat.

He hasn't felt this good in ages.

---

No sunlight penetrates the sky. No birds chirp happily to one another. No flowers permeate the environment with their sweet aroma.

With the clouds sagging the way they are, there is no way a foreigner could possibly assume this is what Chicago calls spring.

To top it all off, a pudgy raindrop hits Sara in the eye.

"Great," she mutters, wiping her face delicately to prevent her mascara from running.

Sitting for half an hour can be hard work, especially if waiting for a boyfriend to leave a meeting that should've ended by now. However, she doesn't let it bother her too much; this is the third time it's happened.

The coffee in her free hand originally served as a warmer and now, as she sips from it, she figures her hand absorbed more than the needed heat. The coffee tastes bitterer than it should.

She forces it down her throat anyway, requiring something to concentrate on before her mind wanders to subjects that should remain buried. Subjects she hasn't brushed in three months and prefers it that way.

Long before her mother died, she constantly reminded Sara, "Memories are life."

It's obvious she's lived by that saying her entire life, but Sara eerily notices the innuendo. _If you have no memories, you haven't lived._

Is it a crime to bury your past?

---

"_You haven't gotten any tail lately, have you?" _

"This is why it never works out between us!"

"Brie—"

"—No! Why can't you just get it right? Once?"

"I—"

"—Don't want to hear it, Linc!"

"Please, let me explain," pleading, he pulls his boxers up to his waist and trots toward Brie's stumbling body. He extends his arms at the right time and tries to win her over by swooping down for a kiss.

She doesn't refuse and he feels her loop her arms around his neck. Acting quickly, Lincoln wraps an arm around her thigh and pulls her up. Her legs hold his waist to her lower body and he is easily aroused.

Speaking against her mouth, "Shouldn't you have made a run for it by now?"

"No."

---

It's perceptible in his timing, his touch, his kiss, his tone.

He shows up late if he doesn't stand her up. He makes her wait a good hour before leaving a meeting and whenever she surprises him at work he barely thanks her for the food, let alone leaves her half, and says he's in a conference call.

His hands only momentarily caress her face. His fingers only play for a second before disregarding her needs. He doesn't make her toes curl.

His lips don't tease. He's straight forward when kissing and hates to beat around the bush. He doesn't skim the surface of her body like he used to. He doesn't make her stomach churn.

Words aren't tender; they're rough, void, unpolished. His wonders must cost more than a penny and Sara is honestly tired of dealing with a thoughtless advertiser that tried hard to impress her so long ago.

Landon doesn't love her.

And when she decides to spring the news on him, it's comparable to sour milk.

She's always known she would find him pleasuring his secretary.

---

Another picture frame hits the floor by Lincoln's feet and he finally drops to his knees.

"Why must you bring this into my house?" Brie cries, shoving more of his belongings into a box. "You said you were done!"

"Brie—"

"—No!" roaring, she deftly spins on her bare heel and he can finally see the damage he's done. She's holding his needle by a string and, as his eyes flicker to her face, he sees tears. Her once fragile face is framed by wisps of pulled-back curls, set with worry lines and stricken red. Her legs, hugged by the smallest shorts he's seen her wear, wobble and had he the strength, he would try to steady her.

"You have to understand—"

"—I don't have to understand. I've given you plenty chances and you've run out of fucking luck."

Stunned, Lincoln forces himself to stand. She almost retreats as he steps toward her but seems to think better.

"I never meant to hurt you."

"You promised me, Lincoln! You promised me!"

"Please—"

"—Just stop!"

As her bedroom door slams, Lincoln quickly rummages through the box, excavating on auto. He tosses useless artifacts to the linoleum surrounding him before his shaky hands find the vial.

The solid seems to suck all the saliva from his mouth as it journeys down his already dry throat. Another joins and another joins until a party of dense particles drowns his tongue.

He swallows them dry, until the container is empty and his world turns black.

---

The heart monitor has beeped frequently. His chest rises and fall. His fingers curl involuntarily and Sara knows he's alive.

She's avoided hospitals since a year and a half ago and she can't seem to figure out why she can find so much solace in a place so similar. A place so similar she can almost imagine Michael lying on a stretcher before her, bleeding nonstop yet so peaceful.

"Take care of him," is what he'd whispered and she vowed to do so. Yet so many wrong turns led to the current situation: an overdosed Lincoln and a harried Sara.

The least of her worries was his survival. Lincoln is a strong man who's dealt with drugs before. What could possibly change that?

Their breakup? His only brother's stabbing?

Answer: Both.

And all she needs is to blame herself for her ex's death.

---

"Did we promise Mike we'd come back here or was this just a spur-of-the-moment type thing?"

"Type thing," he answers easily, crawling across the sand towards Sara and tackling her to the ground. He watches her eyes brighten and kisses the bridge of her nose. His lips trail a path down her face and to her jaw as her hands come up to frame his.

"I'm getting sand in my hair," she whines as her teeth bite on his ear.

"Payback's a bitch, isn't she?"

"You got that straight," Sara murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek before sitting up. "Lincoln."

"What?" he drawls lazily, settling her between his legs as he bends to kiss the expanse of her back.

"Why did you invite Jordan to the wedding?"

Stopping, Lincoln growls and moves to sit before her. "Are you still bothered by that?"

"He was your pain in the ass."

"I know."

"Then why would you invite him?"

"Because he owed me."

"Owed you what?"

"All the errands he made me run."

"And that idiot was your friend?"

"Sort of. Why?"

"He gave us a gift card."

"For what?"

"McDonald's."


End file.
